Attitude Adjustment
by Biichi-gi
Summary: Nick heads out of town to help a Lodge member, ends up in the hospital and The Team rides to his side. Together they discover an even bigger problem and 'clean up the town'.
1. Road Trip

**if it needed said, I don't own Grimm, just the OC's.**

"Is this the Grimm?" Nick Burkhardt jerked the phone away from his ear to stare at it, stunned by the querulous inquiry even more than the unfathomable fact that the phone in question was the one he shared with his partner, Hank Griffin. At work. In the Portland PD. While he eyed the monster in his hand, the timid voice repeated. "Sir? Is this the Grimm?"

"Uh, speaking," he admitted cautiously. "Who is this?"

"Sorry, Sir, I should have said right away. No disrespect intended, Sir. I'm... It's Margie. Margie Dowling, Sir."

"Where did you get my-name?" He asked, thankful she seemed to be a bit more doughty than some Wesen he'd endured speaking with. Reminding himself this was not his first nervous caller, he forced himself to take a calming breath.

He was certainly no Joe Friday, but, having neither time nor use for small talk, (especially at this hour of the night) his only interest in official calls was to get the facts and get to work. That approach, Monroe had informed him in his inimitable way, would never win friends and influence the majority of the Wesen community who still saw him as a slavering monster. Along with repeated lectures on the importance of presenting a non-threatening front, Monroe, Compulsive that he was, had been trying to teach the detective to control the exasperation that crept into his voice, not to mention his visage, when faced with moments such as this. Especially given his caller's tremulously voiced inquiry, the deep, calming breath he forced down was definitely warranted.

True, he was a cop so anyone in the greater Portland area had every right to call on him with their concerns; it was part of his job. And, as certainly, in his hereditary position as a Grimm, he served the Wesen community as well. The problem was...he wasn't usually approached directly for those particular services. In fact, most often if there was a Wesen in the works, the Wesen WAS the problem.

"I have a friend in Portland who said...she said you c...you would help me. I," the nervous woman fluttered, her already tentative voice faltering its way into an abject apology. "But... Well, just forget I said anything. I'm sorry I bothered you. Please don't..."

Ah, hell! Nick scraped his hair back from his forehead in frustration, a reflexive gesture which rearranged his already ruffled hair into even greater disarray. He would have groaned aloud except he recognized from her dithering approach he would lose the call and there was no question that, as she had worked herself up to the effort, it was important to her. "It's okay, Ms. Dowling. It's just been a long day," he offered apologetically, noting it was getting on towards 8 PM and he should have left by now, as he settled into what Hank referred to as Compassion Mode. "How can I help?" He asked, by habit seeking to categorize his caller and possibly the nature of her problem. Eisbiber, he'd bet on it judging by the abjectly timid delivery so like that of his friend, Bud Wurstner. Might be Reinegen, too; but definitely Wesen.

Just what he needed at the end of an already crappy day; but this was his job. Not a job so much as a 'calling'. Being a Grimm, while not a position he'd sought or accepted, as he had that of detective on the Portland PD, was one he could not escape. Not willingly, anyway, the job passing to him when his Aunt Marie died and he, as the hereditary successor, contracted it, rather in the fashion, he occasionally imagined, of Dana Andrews and the Deadly Runes. God, he almost groaned at the path his tired mind was pursuing. It was getting late, and he, punchy, if that pivotal moment in his life brought to mind the catchy tune from Rocky Horror Picture Show, to which he and Juliette had one evening gone with Monroe and Rosalee to, in Monroe's words, 'soak up the ambiance'. That had been an enjoyable evening but not one he needed to recall just now. Truthfully, in the beginning, the actual assumption had been pretty much like Dana Andrews, more a matter of being trapped in a nightmare with nothing song-worthy about it.

What he needed right now was to wrap things up and get home. Hank had left over an hour ago at his insistence. Since, he pointed out, Juliette was spending the week with her ailing mother and he had no place else to be while his partner had a date, Nick had magnanimously volunteered to finish up the paperwork, and that, no mean sacrifice. He'd meant to take care of one last detail and leave shortly thereafter. In fact he should have, but things had conspired to delay him and now he wanted nothing more than a quick sandwich and bed. However, given Juliette's absence, he admitted he'd be settling for a beer and bed; more likely, also because she wasn't there to witness his craven departure from civilization, a beer IN bed.

Back to Wesen, it was, then. "Ma'am," Nick interrupted (the continuing apologies). "Ma'am, how can I help?" Sure it was abrupt but several years' experience with Bud and his lodge brothers left him few illusions she'd run down any time soon and come to the point. That gentle prompt had sparked a whole sequence of apologies and half hearted attempts to abandon the phone which Nick, having accepted the challenge, took in poor part and doggedly pursued her.

"Ma'am, again." Nick kept his manner gentle and reassuring despite wishing he had a nail handy to chew. "Let me remind, you called me for help; but I can't do anything unless I know what the problem is."

Not for the first time, Nick truly appreciated his improved hearing courtesy of the Jinnamuru Xunte which allowed him to hear the woman. Not so much when he recognized she was attempting to suppress a 'sobdown'. 'Ah, hell, not the tears!' Nick smothered his own dismayed groan and dropped his head to the arm which held his notepad ready. "Ma'am. Margie are you okay?"

"I'm sorry, sir. I just didn't know what else to do." The woman's sniffling response touched on both professional levels Nick represented.

"Then you came to the right place because that happens to be what I do." Her snorting response to the intentionally trite assurance gave Nick hope he'd soon get the details of her predicament and get out of here. "Now, Margie, how can I help?"

Man, that was so slavish he almost checked his desk to make sure he'd jettisoned the latest "Quick Reference Guide" to which they were subjected yearly by the PR department in their annual campaign to improve public opinion. Each one was slightly different, he had to admit, but each, without fail, held the 'buzz phrase' popularized by whichever 'spin-giver' had gotten the bid and appeared to the Bigwigs to be ascendant in the 'big bucks claptrap popularity' lottery. Some years it was bad enough to make him feel like the hapless, helpless-thrall-to-his-programming Robocop where too often cozying up to the public and doing the job mixed like fire and gasoline. Nope. Not here. That fact alone put a comforting smile in his voice. "Is this problem you're having a personal one, or are you calling for someone else?" Might as well make a frontal assault, Nick decided; anything was better than scrabbling after hen's teeth. _Grab the hens! get the teeth and get out_ that was his new motto! at least, he suppressed the groan his glance at the clock generated into a deep preparatory breath and went after the current poultry.

"Maybe I shouldn't have called you, sir. I'm sure this is way beneath your notice. Please, just-"

"Ma'am," Nick's irritation slipped through in a bit a growl that, curiously, (did he actually hear that, or was it simply the blindness improved hearing) acquired a menacing overtone of Authority. Almost as good as Captain Renard's coat for impact, he marveled. "You called. I'm here. What's wrong?"

He winced just a bit at that aggressive an approach but couldn't, all the same, but be impressed by the shell-shocked silence on the other end. Then, "it's my son, sir. At school he's on the football team. We're so proud of him because, you know, not many of us get into that kind of thing. Anyway, he's on the Varsity team and already has a scholarship to Oregon, so this year he needs to do real well and keep up his grades." Nick's eyes rolled as much with respect as exasperation while he attempted to hurry the woman along on her 'second wind' explanation, 'air cranking' her reel. "Well, he was doing fine till about a month ago when..." Her pause for teary reflection sent Nick's head to the bumper of his notepad holding arm, again. He took another 'refreshing breath', mouthing a heartfelt 'thank you, Monroe', and waited for her to continue. "He started having trouble at school. I think it had been going on for some time before-"

"Exactly what is the problem?" Still with the impending menace in his voice.

"He's being bullied. You know, pushed around, ordered about-"

"I'm familiar with the term, Ma'- Margie. What would you like me to do?" Nick didn't much care for the current 'tell-a-cop' method of bully control, being of the opinion a child needed to develop his own backbone; but this instance might be different since the 'alleged' victim was, considering the football, a rather intrepid member of his kind. And Margie, having spoken to a Grimm for several moments without suffering any 'mortal effects', had since slipped into the Epic mode of narration.

"I-" here the woman's courage faltered in the face of her instinct to mother. "I want you to make him stop!"

"I can't guarantee that, Margie, but I will definitely check things out. I do need to know your son's name and if or when I can talk to him."

"Oh, sure," more sniffling! "His name is Bronson. Right now he's in the hospital. He was beaten up this evening and-" the poor woman fought for control, her rustling kerchief clearly audible to Nick. With that in mind, he reconsidered, perhaps the family was rather more intrepid than average. "They're keeping him overnight to be sure but I just know it won't be the last time this happens. It's been getting worse ever since he got the scholarship to Oregon.."

"That's definitely something to take pride in, Margie," Nick assured her, marveling again at the odds of that happening and forbore to ask exactly what kind of Wesen he was while making a note to ask Monroe about the propriety of making that query over the phone without utterly demolishing his image as an unstoppable Grimm. "I'll try to be there early morning, if you want to meet me. I think I'll go straight to the hospital, if you've no objection."

"Oh, thank you so much, sir," she enthused. "That would be wonderful. I'll be there anyway because my husband's working and-"

"You don't want to leave him alone," Nick finished for her. Not unusual, given the circumstances, and the mother's need to defend her offspring.

"Are you at the hospital now, Mrs. Dowling?"

"I came out to the car to call," she whispered, "you know, in case those ... people were following me or something!"

"Probably not necessary," he commented, "but, considering, not a bad choice. You take care and I'll see you in the morning."

"Oh!" Nick caught himself before the phone hit the cradle, surprising her as much as himself. "Sorry, Margie. I'll let you get back to Bronson in a minute, but just who-what kind of Wesen are you dealing with?" That should certainly satisfy Wesen protocol to personal questions from a Grimm, he congratulated his choice as he hung up and prepared to go home.

That was how he ended up on this back road at three AM. Trolls! Häslichen in Grimm-speak. Not mean, necessarily, but determined and firmly entrenched in the old ways. He, as the resident Grimm, in response to a request, however unofficial, was going to see if he could drag this particular group into the present century without resorting to traditional, terminal means. Mom would probably take a cestus to him for his methods, he knew that. Though she grudgingly tolerated his association—no, he had no trouble admitting to it—his friendship with Monroe and Rosalee, she was an 'old school' Grimm, so it was understandable. But since he'd bungled his way into the new job and in desperation accepted, heck he'd demanded the aide of a Wesen against his own kind, he pretty much 'began as he meant to on' and thus single-handedly demolished the grain of Portland's Wesen-Grimm interactions. Having no first hand knowledge of protocol or standard procedures and no real life combat experience except the reaper's attack on his Aunt Marie, he had been, to his mother's way of thinking, a regrettable failure as a Grimm. To his, inculcated with police force standards and procedures, he had no problem with the choices he'd made. Of course he had not known at the time how much he overstepped. Their informal partnership had been forged in his first ever Wesen hunt, a matter of life and death for a little girl. And they had won!

Without really even being aware of it, the fledgling Grimm's reliance on the clock making Wieder Blutbad had become habit, and that habit had kind of gotten away from him. Over the past few years his association with the initially reluctant, self-proclaimed Grimmopædia named Monroe had expanded to include Monroe's girlfriend, Rosalee, Bud and Phoebe Wurstner, his partner Hank, his girlfriend Juliette and Captain Sean Renard, the local Royal (Who knew?). Team Grimm, Hank called it; and, as far as he was concerned, the combination of Wesen, varied talents, and authority on Team Grimm had been working well. So...he had no intention of backsliding in time to a solitary existence, if the others would even let him; because as often as not, whenever Wesen involvement was suspected, one or more of his team demanded inclusion in the venture.

Much as he'd like to, he couldn't argue against the practice, especially with the non-Wesen. They'd tried that with Hank and Juliette and it hadn't worked. Once drawn into his affairs, however tangentially, their fate was as sealed as his and they became vulnerable. Because of him. So now Hank and Juliette knew about this supernatural side of their world and he had drawn them into that circle of protection, which he feared would soon include Sgt. Wu. His guilt about that necessity notwithstanding, what they were doing worked. Their approach to Wesen control was making a difference for everyone, human and Wesen alike. It had kept them all alive and well thus far and he meant to insure that it continued to do so.

Finally finished with his "regular" job, Nick set off to take care of the Häslich attitude adjustment and then get down to a relaxing weekend away from it all. To further that end, he'd skipped dinner in favor of a longer catnap and settled for a bagel and large coffee to go before hitting the road to Eugene. If he was lucky, he'd settle this dispute and be on the way back home by noon with most of his windfall free weekend ahead of him.

**Hope you liked this. If you did, a lovely comment would be most encouraging And much appreciated.**

**As often I do, I must sincerely thank LittleBounce for her inestimable aid in editing and offering suggestions and the always welcomed encouragement. This wee effort, though, pales in comparrison to her own wonderful Grimmworks, the which I shamelessly plug, along with DSquirrel's. If you want a great ride, look them up.**


	2. Car Trouble

**I don't own Grimm. The OC are mine. **

**Disclaimer: I'm winging it on the city and other pertinents, so live with it. I could have made the city up and really gotten slammed. If anyone lives in Lebanon and wants to fill me in on specifics, that would be great! As to the presence of the hapless victimized tree, he falls into the OC category as well. Let's call him Griffin.**

Another hour or so passed, Nick estimated as he flicked the brights back on once past a minivan, early risers on route, he imagined, to some weekend do of their own. Thankfully the earliness of the hour pretty much assured him a road to himself and that freedom from the need to continually readjust between oncoming headlights and darkness, brilliance and night vision. The rest of the drive should be easy, even if the roads were getting a bit dicey with the slicking of frost.

Sighing in exasperation as another set of brights assaulted his eyes, Nick redirected his gaze to the white line edging the shoulder and waited for the other vehicle to pass. Instead those bright lights strafed him, swinging wildly from driver to passenger side and back. His heart jumped at that. The car was coming straight for him, it's blinding brilliance assailing his cab as the car slewed with stately dignity toward his own.

Reflex took over, proof, if he even needed it, that none of the mandatory classes on defensive and evasive maneuvers had been wasted. He managed to slip past the oncoming missile but his heart jagged again as his own vehicle took flight into the void before landing in the rime glistened field fetched up against a tree. That impact followed almost instantly by the airbag's anemic deployment and an audible pop as his collarbone succumbed to the vigilance of his seatbelt.

"Thank you, Hank!" Nick whispered, grateful when he could breathe again that his partner's mechanical expertise had blunted the greater impact of the bag or he'd be doubled over an aching stomach and puke covered lap as well as sporting a bloody shirt from the pounding his nose took. Instead, he found he was relatively intact and the seatbelt obligingly released him. Which meant, thanks to his Grimm-given pain threshold, he could still get to the other vehicle and render aid. But first, he locked his gun in the glove compartment and dialed 911.

"911. How can I help you?"

"This is Nick Burkhardt, I'm a detective with the Portland PD. There's been a car accident on Highway 20. I'll leave my phone open so you can check the GPS. I'm going to head over to see if I can help. I'll try to tell you more when I reach them."

"Sir, if you —"

"No, listen. Burkhardt, PPD. I don't know the condition of the other car or it's occupants. I'm heading there now." Nick steadied himself against the opened door and squinted up the slicking incline to track his trajectory from the gash in the roadside shrubbery to the recently assaulted tree. "I'm leaving the phone open so you can track me."

He locked and pocketed the phone, grabbed his flashlight from the trunk, then backtracked the trail in an upward scramble from his tree smashed car to the shredded shrubbery some fifty yards uphill. Slightly uneven ground, he judged from the infrequent imperfections shadowed against the backdrop of ice glistened grasses.

By the time he crested the top, his lungs hitched with every shift of his injured shoulder, no matter that all his hand held was the flashlight. While it didn't actually hurt that badly, his body was reacting as though it did and, once more, he appreciated his Grifted tolerance to pain.

Grifted? Nick leaned against a nearby post to catch a breath, look for signs of the other car's passage and to gather wits which had surely gone wanting. Grifts? Grimm gifts, he could see the connection, but the all too natural acceptance of that self-coined phrase made him uneasy. Now he needed to find the other car and, while he could guess what path it might have taken, he couldn't see it in the predawn gloom. Again, as his breathing settled, his Grimm acquired hearing picked up the distant panicked screaming of woman and child and the deeper modulated voice of the father.

The man's soberly delivered advice should have worked. Instead, the woman grew more frenzied while the child redoubled his efforts into ear-piercing shrieks, all but drowning out the father's efforts to bring order. And beneath it all, the ominous groaning of a car on the edge.

The scene, when finally it greeted Nick, was truly unfortunate— for everyone. The SUV perched half on a ledge of grass and rocks, the greater part of the driver's side still holding on. But as he grew closer, the woman and child, came into view. The adults were Häslichen in full Woge. 'Better than Siegbarste, at least', he decided, trying to evade their terrified gazes and spare everyone, especially his ears, further assault from the child's shrill that could have set dog's ears bleeding for half a mile. Then the tentative warble of a baby foiled his excellent intention to evade their recognition of him as the apparently newly wakened tot joined the clamor. Nick scanned the interior to locate the baby and —damned foolish move—looked to the woman as the first place it might be. She saw his Grimm gaze as it swept past her and flung herself into full protective mode, lunging across her amazingly calm husband as a pointless barrier between Nick and her kids. In reaction, the already unstable SUV shifted with a groan.

"Police." Nick identified himself. *Be calm, friendly, reassuring*. "Do you want to do this now?" he demanded, "or would you rather get out of here alive? You need to calm down, Ma'am, I'm here to help, and you're only scaring your children." It would never do to scream 'shut up' at the already distraught woman.

Small steps, he reminded as the woman seemed to collect herself and, though still a bit gabbled, she quieted enough to let her husband speak. "Please get them out, officer," he urged, seemingly in pain. Trapped he might be, though Nick could not see well enough to be sure.

"Are you okay, Sir?" Nick asked. Seeing the man's distressed pallor and persistent Woge, he tried the door. It no more than creaked in complaint. "Hang on." Nick stepped back to the sliding door where he met a similar dead end as the elder child —he hesitated at blaming the kid's obstruction on anything but fear— reached to thumb the lock. Nick recalled an old adage his father had favored: _Never ascribe to malice what can adequately be explained by fear...stupidity...ignorance,_ you name it.. He chose to read the little troll's actions as malice. Unintended and immediate, Nick's frustration got the best of him. So mad now he could feel a 'Temper' stealing over him, he turned back to the driver's side door and caught the handle in both hands. For once, greeting the chilling mono focus of the Zombie effect as a welcome friend, he put his back into the effort.

Renewed hysteria and a blood splattered front seat greeted Nick's next conscious thought. Before he could figure out where it had all come from, he was aware of the man pulling his wife over his lap and to safety despite the steering wheel pinning him to his seat. Nick helped her down then set her off to the side, turned to free her husband and almost dropped as the distraught woman pushed past him with the same intent, her jarring move grinding the bones in his shoulder together. "Get back," he snapped, out of patience, then, a conscientious afterthought, added, "Ma'am." He sucked in a breath for pain control and reached with his aching arm to release the lock in back, for once not sorry his anger cowed the elder child. That door, at least, opened readily and he hefted the boy down, teeth gritted against the pang it cost him, and turned back to the man, aware, as the others did not seem to be, of the tortured moan from the SUV as it shifted on the icy rocks.

He sidestepped to address the trapped man, unsure what he could do to help without scaring the woman and child more than he had but also very aware that time was critical. "Let's see if I can get you out of here." He set hands to the trap. Obligingly the 'chill' responded as Nick stepped onto the floorboard and grasped the imprisoning wheel with both hands, "Gonna hurt," he gritted the warning to them both just before the steering column succumbed to the Grimm's force majeure and creaked obediently up and away from its victim's chest.

Next he knew, Nick clutched at the stabbing pain his effort cost while the man he'd freed stumbled out of the seat, half supporting his fainting rescuer while he offered profuse thanks. "Are you okay, Officer?"

Nick nodded grimacing assurance, appreciating this occasional perk of the job. But that sense of accomplishment was short-lived. The woman, having scrambled into the back seat, was now frantically tugging at the belts that secured her baby, her terrified screams practically obscuring the grating crackle as already strained rocks shifted under the added activity. He knew, even as he again cursed her stupidity, what happened next was unavoidable and, were he a more callous man, he might leave her to face the consequences of her actions. But he wasn't and never had been.

Damning the woman as he hauled her screaming from the car, Nick shoved her toward her husband and leapt to take her place. Even as the creaking car succumbed to inertia and toppled over the crumbling ledge, instinct took over and he folded protectively over the now untethered child seat, caught the underside of the front seat with his left hand to stabilize them and exerted every shred of strength he had to preserve the baby as he tumbled downhill for the second time.

**Hope the second Chapter pleases. If it does, please leave a message at the beep.**

**Again, many plaudits and rejoicing for LittleBounce's edits, encouragement and exceptional Grimmworks and to DSquirrel for the great ones that made me want to try my hand at it, too. You're inspirations, both.**

**BEEP **


	3. Grimm Business

**A/N: I do not own Grimm. Curses!**

Grimm Business

Pam Padgett perched in the front seat of the police cruiser, gathering the heater's warmth about her with the blanket the EMT's had provided to her and her son, satisfied for the moment to watch her son in the back seat almost dwarfed by the second officer of the pair whose function was, apparently, note taking. He practically swam in his own blanket, which gaped open, forgotten as he hung over her seat back to better hear her report and to share his own version of the story—the exciting part she wasn't telling very well.

"Mommy said he's grim," he confided with a solemn nod of affirmation, small hands clutching the seat back.

"A Grimm," she corrected, by habit, giving proper emphasis to the article then cringing in dismay at the unintended disclosure.

"Oh, that's right!" The boy cried, growing more animated to recount the further exploits of their savior. "But he pulled the door open. Even Daddy couldn't do that. And then he got Daddy out of the car, too. So he couldn't be that mean," the boy burbled happily on, more than ready to share his tale now he'd started. "He's real strong!"

"Sounds like he is," the officer agreed. "Then what?"

"Then he jumped in the car to save Aeriel. An' I betcha he did, too. Even if Mommy doesn't believe it. 'Cause he's a real hero."

'A Grimm,' Bill snorted at the very possibility while his kehrseite partner soaked it all up and faithfully recorded the clearly incredible fairy tale in his notebook. Hell, the fool'd be laughed out of the station. If he were included in the joke. Which, knowing nothing of the Real World, he was NOT. Oh, he was a good enough cop, and a nice guy; but he was not Wesen, not aware of those who lived alongside him, and had no clue what the term he so obligingly misspelled for his report actually meant.

If the EMT's hadn't gone downhill already, he'd make sure at least one Grimm did not survive the day; but one of them was, like his own partner, clueless, so that option was out. Still, he monitored their frequency with greater than usual interest, stranger things could happen than a Grimm coming back to life. As yet they reported no sign of movement as they approached the vehicle. "Be advised down there," Bill warned sotto voce, "one of your vics is —uh—Grimm." There. The apparent faltering description should alert Beck, just in case.

Below, Sera Beck received that warning with a shrug, settling her kit to apply and adjust the magnetic light to the crumpled roof while her partner, Jim Shaw, crawled over the front seat in a cautious approach to the pair. From her vantage point, it appeared the 'heads up' was unnecessary, a shame if the young man were not what Bill claimed. He lay awkwardly, half on his side, the car seat caught protectively against his chest in the deathlike embrace of grey-tinged fingers. The tableau one of icy silence offered little hope for either victim. A quick scan with her hand-held light revealed walls, roof and seats so liberally splattered with blood the interior of the vehicle resembled a set from The Walking Dead. The only difference—a sad one— this guy wouldn't be doing any walking.

Shaw knelt, awkwardly propped between the front seats while he tried to release the ominously silent car seat from the death grip of its would be rescuer. Working with him and careful to avoid the bloodied tangle of limbs, Sera edged into the back seat, set her case down well in front of her and crawled towards her patient's head to help Shaw with the baby. But the stark light behind cast her shadow over the approach, so she'd no warning until a stabbing pain alerted her to an unseen hazard. Cautious exploration with her handheld light revealed a bent and bloodied branch which led to—oh, Lord!—their victim. Steering clear of that hazard, she inched her stethoscope beneath the baby carrier to check for life, however unlikely she deemed his survival. Clutched as tightly as the carrier was to the officer's chest, and considering the ominous silence of the whole bloody scene, Sera wondered if the baby had not been bludgeoned between the carrier and her rescuer. Perhaps shaken so violently by the ordeal she had not survived.

Nothing. She kept listening, unwilling despite Bill's warning, to leave some mother or—she admired the handsomely masculine features—wife or loved one alone and grieving. Beneath her fingers, the ashen chest remained chillingly still, offering neither sound nor promise to her seeking ears. Cold as it was this time of year, she didn't think they'd been long enough in reaching the site for him to lose temperature that fast. Something just wasn't quite right about this. Wait!

"Shhhh, Shaw!" Alert, she pressed the chest piece more firmly against the icy flesh. There it was again. Snuffling, or a faltering heartbeat? "I've got something!" Sera leaned over her patients, set a stabilizing hand against one of the man's cheeks and industriously rubbed his other. "Hey, wake up." The hell with concussion if he didn't survive, she decided when the gentle approach brought no response and slapped his cheek, gently at first, calling to encourage him. "Wake up!"

"Easy, Sera," Shaw murmured.

"Come on, Babe," she urged, escalating to sharper blows, "come on. Let's see some fight. You gonna let some little car wreck take you out?"

Shaw, recovering from the shock of seeing his partner physically attacking a victim, caught her hand before she landed the next blow. "What the hell, Beck? Smacking a cop around? Have you lost it?"

"Off." The confrontational partners ignored that feather-soft complaint.

"What are you doing, Sera? You could—"

"Get. Off." This time, the interruption was delivered with volume and force enough to attract them to their complaining victim and galvanize them into action.

Shaw caught the baby carrier, released in the cop's effort to escape Beck's battering, and tried to pull it into his lap to check the infant. No go, he cursed under his breath, fighting to break the baby's remarkably tenacious grip on the man's shirt while Sera grasped the man's now sagging head to stabilize it in case of spinal injury. Time now to worry about collateral damage, she admitted, not regretting her possibly rash actions as her 'zombie' pinked up under the lights, his skin gaining warmth she welcomed as a good sign even as she wondered if that was normal for a Grimm.

Naturally the baby chose that moment to squall at being removed from her chosen security, clutching with both hands the cop's bloodied shirt when Shaw tried to pull her away. The Grimm cringed under her wailing assault, right hand moving blindly as if to comfort the little girl. Smug, Sera awaited the infant's frenzied response to his touch.

It was frenzied, all right. She gawked as the little girl caught his thumb in an excited grip and nuzzled his hand with every evidence of delight, predictably oblivious to the dirt and smears of blood, as she was to the nature of her rescuer. Unnerving as that was to Sera's preconceived notions, the shift gave Shaw access to release the belting and free the baby from her carrier. Which, in turn, gave them access to the injured cop.

He was a mess! Training took over and the pair,—one of them at least— forgot the nature of the man they worked on. Forgot while setting IV, checking vitals (which thankfully appeared stable now), applying field dressing to the back wound which likely accounted for most of the Halloween Horror Night interior of the van, moving him onto the backboard, into the transport cage and up to the ambulance, that this man was the boogeyman of her childhood. The Grimm. Lord, she couldn't believe she might actually have saved the life of a Grimm. How the hell was she going to explain _that_ to the rest of the Wesen with whom she worked?

Once at the ambulance, the pair shifted Nick—the name he'd provided when she badgered to keep him conscious and responsive—to the gurney for transport. Nick and the baby, Sera amended, settling them for the ride. The group of them, unable to separate the tot from her savior, had given in to her mom's display of inconsolable grief and spared all ears within a half mile by sending both mother and son after the father's ambulance in a police cruiser. The older son's effusive hero worship of their wounded Grimm, Sera snickered to consider, was likely to drive Bill, the rabid Wesen supremacist, nuts if the baby's evident preference for the Grimm hadn't been enough.

"He wants you to call someone named Monroe and his partner, Hank," Sera passed on the request along with their field notes while she and Shaw helped transfer their patient to the ER trauma room gurney, certain the nurse would make note and act on his instructions. Some might let it go, but Sera knew Adrienne was both caring and conscientious. "He says both are on speed dial," she added, handing over the phone which was only a bit worse for the wear. Having planned ahead, she carefully delivered the phone face up, her pre-typed message prominently displayed. _He's a Grimm_.

When Adrienne blanched at the revelation, Sera followed with the life saving proviso, his detective's badge—it's warning clear. 'Don't kill him!' Adrienne closed her hand around the phone, keeping the message secret from Shaw.

Just outside the entry, the three froze in their tracks, attention drawn to the baby shrilling her outrage at the rough treatment meant only to separate her from her security, her little feet and hands scrabbling for a grip on the cop that would stymy the nurses' efforts to dislodge her.

"What the hell is going on, and who is that?" A doctor called from the theater doorway.

Guilty, the nurses stopped. And almost instantly blessed silence reigned, followed by a contented snuffling from the Banshee noise making baby Häslichen in question.

"That," Shaw responded to the doctor's cursed demand for an explanation of the unexpected din. "Is his Rescue, Aeriel."

"We tried to separate them in the field but even her mother couldn't get her to let go." Sera added, feeling, as she knew Shaw must, some justification had to be given for their own decision to take the baby along.

"Looks like she decided to keep him," Shaw summed up the conclusion the pair had reached on the way in. "On the way in, we tried a Binky, a heated blanket, bottle of milk the mother had, you name it. Nothing doing."

"And the attempts were hurting our patient, so—"

"We'll just have to work around her for the time being," the doctor decided. Not ideal, but it worked till an older lab tech came to draw blood. Now the baby occupied her own crib nearby, happily clutching the cleanest of Detective Burkhardt's discarded shirts while he received the medical care he needed. As long as she could still see him, the tot seemed happy, which made for a much saner Emergency Room.

"Well, look who it is," Monroe finished his vegetarian sausage in one bite and palmed the phone while he aimed an I-told-you-so smirk at Rosalee. "This was supposed to be a laid back weekend, Nick. Say you haven't —"

"Mr. Monroe?"

Toast in hand to enjoy another fruitless go at getting the overachieving detective to relax for at least one weekend, Monroe froze at the unexpected voice on the too-familiar number. "Yeess."

His tentative, leading response to the call sent a premonitory chill through Rosalee. Whatever the call was, it was definitely a new wrinkle. Quiet so Monroe could hear without her clattering, she began collecting the remains of their breakfast, packing it into portable containers. They might need coffee. Yes, lots of coffee, she decided, watching the emotions play across her lover's face, and filled the big thermos before packing it—and their unfinished breakfast—into the cooler.

When she turned back, a shell-shocked Monroe sat, phone in hand, planning. That was just how he so very competently managed his life, a quality she very much admired, being more a seat-of-the-pants manager. She had been, that is, she smiled fondly at the Wieder Blutbad and closed the cooler she'd retrieved from its place in the broom closet, before she met Monroe, that is.

"What?" She asked, taking his hand in commiserative support as she perched on the cooler.

"Nick's been in a car wreck," Monroe recited the details of the call. "He's in surgery now. I've got the hospital name and number to call for updates." Monroe seemed to collect himself then, as his wonderfully calculating mind refocused to refine his 'plan'. That was one of the multitude of things she loved about Monroe, he always had a plan. And he needn't even say it—there was no way they were sitting here in Portland when Nick was at least several hours away, alone and undergoing emergency surgery.

Rosalee smiled, encouragement and offered him the remaining coffee. "You call Hank, I'll pack a couple of bags." She knew to give him a few moments and she needed a few as well, to face reality about Nick. His Grimm condition appeared to have endowed him with a higher tolerance for pain, coupled with accelerated healing which seemed, to the casual observer, almost superhuman. But they'd patched him up after numerous battles and knew he did feel it even if that didn't show. They knew, too well, he was not unbeatable. But Team Grimm had an unspoken pact; no one mentioned or discussed his vulnerability lest it proved prophetic.

They never spoke of it, she and Monroe, but neither fooled themselves that Nick's fortune in war did not depend upon planning, support and backup as much as his innate and still developing skills in combat.

When she came downstairs with the luggage, Monroe, still on the phone, waved her to the ringing doorbell.

"Who?" she mouthed, to be met with a shrug. It was barely 7am on a chilly Saturday morning. She sniffed in exasperation that anyone or anything should delay their efforts to join Nick.

"Bud?" A bit stunned to see him so early, Rosalee did not move fast enough for the portly Eisbiber who pushed past, almost bowling her over in his haste to get inside and shut the door behind him. While she stared at his unwonted display of assertiveness, he flattened himself protectively against the door for good measure.

"Did you hear about Nick?" Bud glanced over at the bags waiting by the stairs. "Oh, I guess you did. I should have known. It's just awful, isn't it? Very heroic— of course it was heroic. That's what Nick does. But—"

"We heard about Nick, Bud," Monroe joined them, having finished his conversation with Hank. "How'd you know?"

"Me? Oh, he went down to help a lodge member," Bud explained. "I wasn't sure she'd call him, you know, but I guess she did 'cause he was on the way there when an SUV drove him off the road. An accident, they said. At least I think — hope—it was an accident. Unless it wasn't. Oh, my gosh! I hadn't even thought of that—"

Familiar by now with their friend's verbal dithering, Monroe interrupted him for details. "Bud, what happened? Exactly?"

"Oh, sorry. I was just thinking."

"Out loud," Monroe reminded gently.

"Well, there was this wreck and he saved the family. Went over in the car saving the baby. That's what Margie heard."

"That's more than we got from the hospital," Monroe admitted, grumpy that their information was less than perfect. "Does she know any more?"

"More?" Bud stammered. "Oh, sure. The reason she called, besides to tell me about the wreck, is she thinks he might be in danger."

"What?" Rosalee and Monroe chorused. That incredulous demand from both startled the chubby font of knowledge but—familiar with them after the years they'd aided their Grimm— he was not as readily intimidated as he'd once been. "The—the family he rescued were Häslichen, at least one EMT was Balaam, and —well, most of the city is Wesen. Margie's afraid, since even she heard about it, that someone might—" he swallowed, "you know, might try to— well, you know."

"Crime of opportunity." Monroe summarized grimly. They all knew, given Wesen fear of the legendary Grimm, that not many would consider the man himself when faced with the bugaboo they imagined. Considering there'd been a Wesen EMT, he was surprised—No! Monroe refused to even think about it. "Bud, can you get her, Margie, to go sit with Nick? Kind of keep watch, warn anyone off."

"Warn off?" Bud gulped. "I don't know if— Sure, sure," he nodded anxiously. "Yeah, she can sit with him. I'm sure she'll do that. It's why she called— she wanted to help somehow."

"Good," Monroe palmed his phone and dialed, changing the plan to fit. "Tell her we'll check back often and call if there's anything else we need to know."

"Hank," Monroe spoke when the line opened.

"Yeah! sorry I didn't knock," Hank apologized, pocketing his own phone as he stepped through the door, nodding a greeting at Bud. "I called the Captain with the number and what we know so far. Anything else before we go?" He asked, catching Rosalee's bags and standing ready at the door.

Monroe turned to collect the cooler, thermos and cups, leaving the bad news to Rosalee to pass on. She spotted his retreat from the conversation right away; they both knew he could get a little heavy on the doom n' gloom. "Bud's contact in Lebanon says she thinks he's in danger because he's a Grimm." Only the forestalling finger she snapped up gave her the chance to finish. "She's going to sit with him now. But we should see if there's anything Renard can do."

**Here's the next chapter. Kind of fell into a dither so it may be a while for the one following. Sorry. Reviews will be appreciated. Any questions I can answer or suggestions will be entertained as well.**

**Elf**


	4. Intensive Care

**Wow, so there's actually a use for fruitcake? Who knew? Better have one on hand...just in ****case. I loved this answer to the age old question. Also, I don't own Grimm. If only...**

"ICU?" Rosalee's shocked query echoed everyone's response and set off alarms that Margie's concerns about Nick being further harmed might be valid. "I know he had surgery, but nothing the doctor told us would have been that critical!"

The clerk paled under that mildly phrased question, proof that the three behind her had not taken the news well. "I'm sorry, Ma'am," the woman grasped her defense in protocol. "You'll have to ask the doctor."

"We'll meet him in ICU," Hank's presented his badge with glowering intensity making her pale even more. "Now which way would that be?"

With quivering finger and every evidence of relief to see them gone, she pointed down the hallway. "End of this hall and left."

Daunted but firm, the nurse at the desk in ICU repeated, in a robotic monotone, "You can't see the patient if you're not family. You'll have to wait for the doctor."

"I'm his partner," Hank repeated with more feeling and less patience than before, "that is as close to family as he has. Both his parents are dead." Rosalee wondered at his bald-faced misrepresentation and the unflinchingly credible delivery. "The Force is his family," he added a theatrical pause then continued, "Ma'am. I'm just asking to be nice. But I will see him. And I'm about out of patience."

"Doctor is on his way," her robotone was a bit strained but holding, for the moment.

"Doctor Simms," the hurried man introduced himself. "I'm the ER doctor that saw your friend." After a brief round of introductions, he drew them aside to a consultation room, for more privacy than they'd have out in the corridor.

Already on edge, Team Grimm expected more delaying tactics and were surprised when he delivered a remarkably concise and intelligible description of Nick's injuries. "Considering that he came from one car crash to another which went over a hill and rolled at least once, he's in pretty good shape.

"He has numerous abrasions, contusions, lacerations...about what you'd expect, really. He does have a broken collarbone, probably from the seatbelt, which is pretty common, and a moderate concussion. The most worrisome injury is that he appears to have been impaled by some kind of shrub or tree."

Bud, Rosalee noticed, paled at that—good thing she was pale already and sitting down or any bluster they hoped to use playing on her medical background would have gone out the window. All right, Rosalee reminded herself, _it's just a word—a scary one—but it didn't necessarily mean Nick's condition was as bad as it sounded._ "Exactly what do you mean by impaled, doctor?"

"Well, of course, there's no way to be certain but EMT's and rescuers on site say it's likely that, in the rollover, he was thrown against the door opening where he struck a tree or shrub of some kind. I'm guessing an evergreen of one stripe or another but it's not my call. It entered in the lower back, fortunately for him, struck a rib which deflected it upward pretty much limiting it to superficial damage. Had it penetrated the viscera—" he shrugged, almost a shudder at the possibilities. "That's why we sent him to OR, to debride the wound and remove the branch. As to the actual details of the injury, you'll have to speak to Dr. Holloway, who's been called, I'm told."

Rosalee nodded understanding. Remembered, also, what Bud said about the high percentage of Wesen and took a chance that Wesen courtesy would reveal whether this fair minded doctor was in fact among their number. And if he was, she hoped he would answer the Team's burning question: how many here wanted Nick dead and what were the authorities doing to stop it?

While the men with her reacted to her Woge, even Hank who seemed to have divined a 'tell' to woging Wesen (she'd ask later), the physician smiled, "Anything else I can do for you?"

"We heard something about him saving a family—"

"Oh, yeah," he slipped from smooth medical professional to amused bystander in an instant, undoubtedly replaying the scene in his memory. "Damnedest thing, pardon me," he ducked his head in apology. "When they brought Mr. Burkhardt in, tucked up against his chest was this little girl, under a year old, clutching to him tight as a barnacle. Apparently neither the mother on site nor the EMT's en route were able to chisel her off. I was just coming in when the ER nurses tried. Lord! The wailing was like a Banshee."

Very descriptive term, Rosalee applauded privately. She'd met one and that was pretty bad, but she didn't think he meant an actual Banshee, more the mythical faery. Either way you interpreted it the kid must have been...impressive. "Loud?" She asked, encouraging details since he seemed chatty.

"Oh, yeah. You could say that. So we left her where she was and did what we could to work around her. Then one of our phlebos, a grandmother thank God, came in with a solution."

"A piece of clothing?" Rosalee offered, winning a surprised look from one and all.

"Yes. How'd you know?"

"I've worked with a few crabby children in my time," she offered with a comradely smile.

"Well, yes, in a nutshell. We cut off his shirts, gave her the cleanest of them, gave a bottle the EMT's had tried earlier, put her in a crib close enough to see him and she was happy. Worked like a charm."

"The rest of the family? How are they?" Monroe asked, hoping they might be able to talk to them.

"I think the father's spending the night for observation. But aside from a couple of cracked ribs from the steering wheel and a bloody nose, he's fine. Mother and son? A little bruised but fine. I don't doubt your partner saved their lives. At the very least their health. That baby would not be alive if it weren't for his bravery."

"Now," Hank began, turning toward Nick's room as soon as the physician left, "if everybody else who thinks the only good Grimm is a dead Grimm just agreed. I'm going out to rattle some cages and see Nick."

The guard on Nick's door woged in relief. "Oh, thank God. Bud, I'm so glad you're here," The slight, willow limbed blond hugged Bud then pinked in embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I was just—"

"No apology needed, Mrs. Dowling,". Hank offered his hand in greeting, his warm honey voice a soothing embrace. "We can't thank you enough for watching over him."

"Well, it was—I mean. I did my best, but they wouldn't let me in with him. I hope—"

"Ma'am," his comfort caressed her as much by word as his large hands enfolding hers. "You did just fine. We can't thank you enough. Now, is your son okay? We didn't take you away from him, did we?"

He was a consummate schmoozing people manager, Rosalee decided, watching him charm the nervous Eisbiber, if he got bored with law enforcement, he could easily consider politics.

"Oh, no," Mrs. Dowling gushed, rosy at receiving the personalized attention. "My husband's with him now. We both wanted to help the—Mr. Burkhardt. I think they'll let Bronson go home today, so—"

"Well, that's good. Glad to hear it. Once we settle things here, we'll try to get by and talk with him if that's okay. And if he's up to it."

"Oh, we didn't expect you'd—I mean, with your partner in here, we wouldn't—"

"We'll call first," he told her, gently insistent, "and it may be a day or so, depending, but we'll be by. Okay with you?"

Accepting her decidedly numb-founded nod, Hank released her with another warmly appreciative smile. "You take care now, Mrs. Dowling."

When she'd stumbled away, he turned back to the others to discuss their options and met three rather flummoxed companions. "What, you don't think I know how to be nice? C'mon, Good Cop, Bad Cop works best if the bad cop doesn't look like an altar boy. In this case, we take advantage of stereotyping."

"Works for me," Monroe agreed. "The 'Big Bad' ain't such a bad thing to be sometimes. Even if I would never...you know..." he assured them unnecessarily, covering Rosalee's hand on his arm with his own. "What now?" The question they'd all been asking.

"Now," Hank squared his shoulders, ready for business, "I'm going to see my partner."

To Hank's experienced eye, Nick looked about as he'd expected, as he'd prepared to see. His bed partnered by the respirator, the tube of which snaked down Nick's throat to provide life-giving breath, the machine's bellowing efforts echoed starkly in the otherwise silent room. Nick was festooned with telemetry for every eventuality, as well as gauze, yards of tape, steri-strips, stitches, IV's, bruises, abrasions, and heavy duty restraints. He was—

"Restraints?" Hank growled. Not bothering to conceal his temper, he left the others with Nick and set out to do bureaucratic battle.

He'd yet to reach the desk to confront the guard-nurse when his phone blared, in ominous proclamation, The Imperial March from Star Wars. "Hank, how is it on your end?"

"Well, Nick's contact was here watching when we finally got to ICU. Seems the most serious injury is his impalement on some kind of branch, which is why they took him to surgery. He's pretty banged up and has a moderate concussion, but aside from that, as far as I could glean from the ER doctor, he's in decent shape for being in two car wrecks." Hank waited a second just in case Renard did have a comment or question. "I'm trying to find the surgeon now and see why, if Nick's in such good shape he's on a damn respirator. Any luck with their brass?"

"I called to give them a heads up that we had a man there and one coming to keep him company. No more than that."

_Put a warning shot across the old bow, eh? _Hank would've asked had it been any other officer but settled instead for, "Kind of a friendly warning to see where that gets us?"

"More a little rope before they hang," Renard admitted, clearly aware of the reason his Grimm had been down there on his weekend off. If that angered him, it didn't show in his voice; but Hank and Nick had been granted a pretty free rein in Wesen related cases which suited all involved. So far it had been working quite well. And the not so occasional involvement of a certain Wieder Blutbad and Fuchsbau apothecary had passed without official comment higher up the PPD chain of command. Team Grimm had kind of evolved since Hank's 'awakening' and now functioned along the line of covert ops dealing with Wesen problems.

Covert or not, Hank promised himself, if anything happened to Nick because of this, it would look a whole lot more like sweep up wet work for anyone involved in whatever dirt this little berg was dealing.

As he neared the desk, Hank caught a flicker of furtive activity as robonurse leaned near a...very attractive woman, whose eyes glanced nervously in his direction, and spoke rapidly to her. A warning? Didn't matter, he didn't intend to be denied in this, and the woman's looks would not protect her any more than her fleeing the scene. Close enough now to physically detain her if he had to, Hank hailed her. "Miss, I'm still waiting for—"

"Doctor Holloway," the honey haired vision rose to meet him, offered an open handed welcome in a firm handshake and with a genuine smile that reached not merely her eyes but her soul, if he were any judge. This was a lady who really did care about her patients and did more about it than just go through the motions. Despite her unmistakeable, abundant charms, he did not intend to be placated.

Hank forced his tongue back into his mouth (figuratively speaking only he hoped) and met her half way. "Hank Griffin," he greeted, "I'm Nick's partner."

"Nice to see you made it, Detective Griffin. Your Captain called to say you were coming. Not a bad idea as the weather's deteriorated through the morning."

"It was a bit iffy towards the end," he admitted, shrugging off the challenge it had been to maneuver through the worsening driving conditions. "Evasive Driving Class to the rescue. That and four wheel drive."

"Which is worthless—"

"—if you have no traction." He finished the oft heard phrase for her with a fondly reminiscent grin. "Took the same class?"

"Probably. I'm in the Reserves and that's one of the electives they offer," she explained. "Living here, it only made sense to take it. Preparation for the winter of bad drivers. You?" She asked over her shoulder as she caught up a large envelope and started for Nick's room..

"Army and police," he stopped short of the door as she froze beside him, unprepared, he imagined, for the three woged and waiting inside. Not that they'd planned it, but he knew Monroe's appreciation of tactics and wasn't surprised.

Unsure which way this would play out, Hank watched the encounter with one hand on his gun and one on his temper, willing so long as Nick was safe, to give the good Dr. Holloway the benefit of doubt. Her faltering at the doorway proved nothing. She could've been angry they'd entered without let. Her next move would be the tell.

She turned to address Hank with an apologetic smile . "I generally try to avoid a Woge, too easy a habit to get into. We weren't raised that way." She wavered, a not quite visible quiver of form whose significance he and Nick had discounted when first he noticed it. But they'd decided that, provable or not, if it twigged him to Wesen presence, he should use it. So, okay, she was Wesen. But what kind? And was she part of the problem Nick had come to investigate?

As quick as that, the four Wesen reverted to form and the ever considerate Rosalee anticipated his question.

"B'alam," she announced, offering her hand. "I know. We weren't allowed either. Too easy to get into bad habits, Dad said. I'm Rosalee. This is Bud and Monroe. You know Hank."

"And you're another Grimm."

"His partner," he nodded at Nick.

"Schlich-kennen. Well, that's something," the doctor smiled, turning to close the sliding door on their conversation. As a second thought, she turned back to enclose them in the blinds' privacy as well. "The existence of one is bad enough; but a pair of Grimm—" She shuddered then got to the point. "At least it isn't a Terror of Grimms. May I assume the timid but insistent woman standing here for the past several hours was your agent?"

"She's the reason Nick came down here," Hank confirmed.

"Well, hot damn!" She exclaimed, careful to keep her voice low while her face lit with relief. "Not so timid, then huh? I'd heard rumors there was a Grimm in Portland. Never thought we had a prayer of seeing him here. My sis was pretty—impressed— with his courage if not his judgement." She smiled to take the edge off the implied criticism.

"Right man, wrong place—" Hank intoned, grim humor lacing the obvious pride in his voice.

"Heinlein's hero. Suppose it fits, though I have to tell you, after all the years of horror stories, it's a bit to take in," she admitted, setting her shoulders for business. "How can I help you?"

"How can we help _you_?" Hank asked, shocking the four Wesen, who eyed him as if he had just woged before their eyes. Had his question not been serious, he'd have been doing a Cheshire Grin at the incredulity mirrored on the four faces. But he was a trained investigator and he had heard the doctor's initial statement about a Grimm ending up here.

That had been relief, the kind he'd seen when, as the last soldier still digging through a pile of rubble that everyone else had given up on, he'd pulled a battered and terrified five year old to safety. This woman was hoping for rescue—maybe backup—herself, and he'd enough of Nick's gung-ho attitude to Wesen assistance to want to wade in to help with her problem.

"It's not me who needs help right now," she reminded with a gentle smile of denial. "We'll talk about my—our—local problem later. But right now what do you need?"

Hank could have answered. Preferred to, but the Team had decided Rosalee's approach was less the hammer hand he'd've used and more the feather touch the job required. The didn't want to antagonize Nick's caregivers while he was subject to their mercy. "Why is he on the respirator if he has no major injury?" Rosalee posed the foremost question on their mind. "From what Doctor Simms said, aside from the relatively superficial wound from the tree, he could have gone home in a day or two."

"He might have, in a pinch," she admitted and, rubbing her hands together, chose her words carefully. "I don't want to misrepresent the severity of his injuries, any of them," she assured, her unflinching response to their scrutiny doing more to prove her sincerity than her candid explanation. "The concussion is bad enough to merit a week or more in bed because his equilibrium took a big hit. The only reason he isn't vomiting now is the anti-emetics we're supplying through the IV's. The broken collarbone should lay him up several if he wants to heal quickly."

Dr. Holloway opened the envelope she'd brought with her, selected two items and held the X-Rays to the window, gesturing for Rosalee to join her. "The puncture from the shrub—the back attack, if you will—was more problematic." She used a long, elegant finger to indicate the 'stake' in both lateral and ventral views of the injury used to guide her during the surgery.

Turning to Hank, Holloway cocked an inquiring look his way and, receiving his accepting shrug, pressed a finger to his lower back halfway between his spine and his side, angling upwards. "Thankfully his rib deflected the blow from vital areas but, still, the stake just missed his spleen and kidney and tore through muscles on both sides of the chest. It broke the rib, which, with the banging he took from the rollover and baby seat, adds up to four broken and two cracked ribs. There's a fair amount of bruising and some hemorrhaging from that, specifically, and due to the nature of the stake, very little question we'll be dealing with a major risk of infection."

Monroe's eyes widened. "And that's 'superficial'? Right. Simms has weird vocabulary."

"We've sent cultures of the debris and tissues cleaned out of the wound to see if we can specify the bacteria we're dealing with; but that will take a minimum of two days. In the meantime, we'll give broad spectrums based on the gram stain, irrigate the wound with antiseptic wash several times a day, monitor his temperature and white count. For now that's the best we can do."

Rosalee nodded understanding and approval, echoed by Hank who'd had enough empirical experience to understand most of the information. "So… all this, the broken ribs and some adjacent bruising, is preventing him from breathing on his own?'

"Well, there's the trouble. I wish I _could_ explain it," the doctor expelled a breath in frustration. "When the EMT's reached him, they thought, at first, that he was dead. But they were subsequently able to rouse him and transport him to the ER...where he quit breathing once more and appeared—"

As one, the four froze in what she interpreted to be familiarity with the condition she described. When Rosalee went immediately to check her Grimm, Doctor Holloway allowed a few moments then joined her at the bedside.

"You know what this is." It was not a question.

"No, doctor," she corrected, pushing the hair back to feel Nick's forehead. "We know how and why but not what, exactly. Is he unconscious or sedated?"

"A bit of both, actually. He 'coded' again after surgery. And in light of the broken ribs, which took a hit the first time in ER, all we could do was shock him and put him back on the respirator," She considered her patient, clearly weighing options before she spoke again. "The problem is, when he begins to wake, he fights the tubing as well as the restraints his resistance obliged us to apply. So, unless I know what I'm dealing with, I have little choice but to keep him strapped down and tubed, for now."

Rosalee glanced at both Hank and Monroe, certain of her own inclination but awaiting a consensus from the more experienced members of Pack Grimm, as they referred to themselves when Nick wasn't around—anywhere—to hear. They stepped aside to the corner furthest from the doorway and Rosalee drew the surgeon to join them. "A couple of years ago, Hank confided, voice barely audible outside their circle, "Nick was exposed to a —toxin. Kind of a," he shrugged and used the obvious description, certain the doctor would recognize the events which for days had provided fodder for movie made headlines, then sighed in resignation and admitted it, "Zombie powder."

"I remember that in the news,"

Big shock! Hank observed with droll amusement as she grew animated, no doubt over the prospect of learning the truth behind the so called "Outbreak". Carefully concealed but highly debated—at least among conspiracy theorists and SciFi geeks—the true facts had, thankfully, never come to light, dead with the Cracher Mortel and the Royal who'd hired him in the plot to seize their Grimm.

"You were involved in that?"

"Police action? and we _are_ police officers," Hank reminded, "but it was a Wesen related incident."

"You mean a Wesen was responsible for those people's condition? The violence?" She asked, quick on the uptake and open minded enough to see and not discount the possibilities.

Hank nodded. He could appreciate the wit therein if not the wisdom in admitting it.

"And he didn't recover like the rest of the victims, did he?"

"No," Rosalee acknowledged the accuracy of her conclusion. "Unlike most of the victims who required a single dose of the antidote, we had to use two on Nick to reverse the signs—the _overt _signs—of the exposure. And when he seemed okay, we were—"

"Afraid to risk possible consequences of an overdose?" When Rosalee nodded in relief at her understanding of their dilemma, she cemented the fellow feeling with an oft ignored quote from the Hippocratic Oath, "First, _do no harm_. An age old quandary we've all struggled with: how much is too much? When does a given treatment involve more risk than it's probable reward?" She laid a companionable hand on Rosalee's slumping shoulder. "I'd have made the same call. What happened?"

"There was a —side effect—we didn't discover till the next day. Sometimes his vital functions slow down to the point he appears almost lifeless."

"Like in the wreck, the ER and after surgery?" Dr. Holloway asked, turning with a scientist's interest toward her patient.

"Yes," Rosalee nodded with the others, "and they are consistently low regardless of his level of exertion. He's been thoroughly evaluated and it appears that is where his system "normalized" following the exposure."

"We noticed that, too," the physician confirmed, "but wrote it down to the concussion, cold and shock."

"It's not. For a while, after he received the antidote, for lack of a better term, he'd just 'grey out'."

"Scared the hell out of Juliette," Monroe added, ever helpful, "his fiancé. She's the one that first noticed the problem and made him see the specialist."

"So this happens all the time?"

"No, not at all. And not in a while, as far as we know, the occurrences seemed to taper off over time." Rosalee glanced to Hank for his nodding agreement. "I've pored over all my sources, books and notes and haven't found anything there to help beyond the original antidote."

"Antidote for what?" The doctor asked, leaning close to encourage confidences with the offering of somber intimacy.

"Cracher Mortel," Hank named their unlamented villain, cursing him even in death for the evil he'd unleashed and then visited on Nick. "Dead but never forgiven."

"If he did this to your partner, I don't imagine you would forgive. I know I wouldn't," Val Holloway commiserated, wondering privately at the method of his demise she was unlikely to learn, and felt a growing rapport for the stalwart group who stood behind this Grimm. _Known by their fruits_ she recalled the old saying her mother had favored. Substitute friends and this Grimm looked to be a real prize. Hell! leave it as it was and the same was true. The man had risked his life to save a family his kind had been killing for centuries. "How can I help?" she made the decision, "what do you want me to do?"

**The next installment may be a while but it's in the works. in the mean time, hope the Kalikantzaroi don't visit. ;)**

**elf**


	5. In the Pink

**Merry Christmas. **

**A/N I wanted to get this out for a surprise present. Warning, though: I may, upon due consideration, modify it somewhat to pamper my muse, but not enough to bother you. Hope you enjoy.**

In the Pink

"Congratulations, guys. You convinced us." Val Holloway smiled as she closed the door behind the departing ventilator and dismayed 'Code Blue Team'. "If I hadn't seen it for myself, I would not have believed it. Hope you don't hold a grudge." After the six hours and three resuscitations effected by aggressive harassment alone, the four had satisfied the several doctors and disciplines involved in Nick's care that they had been right. Big-city upstarts who claimed superior understanding of his physiology or not, their success spoke for itself. The various unbelieving doctors had relented, grudgingly; but Nick now lay unfettered, with only an open faced mask to provide extra oxygen and thus relieve the strain on his bruised and broken ribs.

"I'll have them bring in a lounger so at least one of you can be more comfortable on your _Zombie watch_," she offered hoping to minimize the bad news she was about to deliver. "However, Admin has informed me—and I, you—that their regulations allow no more than one long-term visitor at any time. They will allow two, given the special circumstances regarding this patient, but no more," she explained, offering an open-handed shrug in apology. "Do you have any place to stay? I mean, have you arranged for rooms yet?"

"That's not the first thing on our mind," Hank admitted, staunch in defense of their priorities.

"No. Of course it wasn't. I was going to offer you a place but I'd better check first." She explained, reconsidering her impulse to bring the Grimm Friends home to an unprepared roommate. The embarrassment over that she covered by checking the monitors and Nick's pupillary response and recording them on his chart. At the door she turned back. "It's been a revelation meeting you, believe me. To limit the number of contacts, I've requested a dedicated nurse. As I said earlier, Admin is aware of Nick's identity and has authorized that." She smiled then in wry amusement, "you'll need one so you don't have to personally screen everyone who tries to get through the door because I doubt you'll be lonely. Think of this room as a very fancy Hi-Tech zoo. By now probably everyone in town knows about your Grimm and will find a way in—"

"—to see him," Rosalee nodded understanding while her three companions registered indignation.

"Long as they don't all want to cop a feel," Hank's initially flippant remark turned glum, and his demeanor defensive, when faced with an alternate and more credible reality, "or kill him."

"More will probably just want to see him for themselves and live to tell the tale." Val offered assurances, "the full time nurse who will, I assure you, be Wesen, and fully briefed, will discourage that possibility."

"Besides," Monroe hastened to Hank at the bedside, "Dude, this is gonna be really good PR. You know, better than those lame cards your department gives out every year. Right? They'll get to see he's just a regular guy and not the monster they've all heard about."

Hank clearly remained unconvinced. "And how is that supposed to be a good thing?"

"'Cause they won't be afraid of him any. More." Monroe perceived the flaw in his reasoning even before Hank's 'there it is' gesture drove the point home and included him in rethinking the wisdom of such a move.

"Gentlemen, if I might—" having followed their reasoning, Val offered some of her own. "As an informed observer—which most of your visitors will likely be—I can only say that, aside from the sedation, he looks pretty darned hard to hurt. Remember, most will have heard the story. They'll know he's been in one car wreck, hiked injured up a hill where he ripped open a crumpled car door and by main force pulled a collapsed steering column off a man, rescued his wife and son, then went over the ledge in a car saving the baby. Believe me, everyone will be impressed. I might even say daunted. I know I am."

"That's not lots of comfort," Monroe stated the obvious, "He needs protection,"

"Yeah, but no cops. Not theirs anyway. No one we don't know," Hank was adamant. "I'm not leaving him."

"I know, dude," Monroe's _whispered _agreement carried through most of the room, so Val felt no great shame as she gravitated their way to join their discussion. "I'm just sayin' we have to rest sometime. But either way, one of us," he included the two of them with a waggling gesture, "will be here _all_ the time."

"And I'll see about providing technical backup for when Rosalee has to sleep."

Val's unexpected proximity startled Hank. But more telling, his reaction provided further proof of the Grimm's moderate approach to Wesen. If his partner, who couldn't see them but knew about Wesen, knew that he'd good reason to fear them yet not only rubbed along comfortably with those he knew, but with her as well, that was _something_. It was an indication his more lethal partner exercised restraint in his own dealings with Wesen. That was indeed a blessing. And she intended to make damned sure it did not become a curse for her wounded Grimm.

To that end, she decided, she'd better see if she could secure the Grimm's team a place to stay, preferably one private enough to share her knowledge of the problem she hoped he'd come to deal with and offer her insight and perspective. Their agent, however good her understanding of the matter, would not be familiar with the particulars of the hospital. So she put in a call to her sister and offered to bring the group some take-out, accepted their orders and took her leave.

Val breezed past the clot of people, comprised mostly of the pre-empted 'code blue team', who lurked outside Room Grimm, drawn in true Pavlovian fashion by the piercing tone of the heart monitor whose oh-so-occasional blipping beat was not sufficient to silence its built-in programming. When she halted just inside the doorway, her uncharacteristic failure to respond to the heart monitor drew a confused glare from her companion and only the quick, unequivocal shake of her head stayed the EMT who waited, feeling guilty for doing nothing but never doubting her sister's judgement. The discomfiting sight at bedside made even less sense, however similar it was to her own unorthodox 'resuscitation' of the same patient, and she marveled that she'd actually stumbled on the practical method of waking their 'sleeping beauty'. At the foot of the bed, a bearded, plaid wearing man industriously waggled the Grimm's leg, a tall black man, badge dangling about his neck, likewise harassed the Grimm's battered and IV bearing right arm, while a trim woman she guessed would be Rosalee coupled encouraging patter with a bruising grip on his pectoral muscle. Since she'd discovered the same on her own, Sera was not surprised when her car-wrecked Grimm pinked up and began to complain of their treatment.

"Hey, that hurts. You're gonna leave a bruise!" As one, the group desisted, congratulating each other in relief upon hearing his protest issued in a husky grumble. Which seemed to Val an excellent time for an entrance so she stepped toward the bed, bags in hand, Sera with the accompanying drinks followed her into the room.

"Okay, everybody, hope I got it right," Val announced her presence, waving the bags as though this kind of occurrence was commonplace for her.

"Where's mine?" the seemingly alert patient demanded peevishly, his eyes avidly tracking the Subway bags. "I'm about to starve."

"Dude," the lumberjack tried reason, "we just got you 'pinked up'. Do you think you really need to be thinking about food right now?"

"I haven't eaten since- Since- What time is it?" he asked even as his voice faded and his eyes, parting ways, drifted shut.

"Manners!" the woman snapped, bringing the quibblers to heel. "Let's thank the doctor for even offering and then we'll discuss who gets what, okay?"

"She's right," Val concurred, handing the bags off to Monroe and stepping nearer the bed to check on Nick. "Let's just be sure first." With a quick glance at the monitor to confirm that his heart rate had settled to its 'new normal' thirty beat-per-minute level, she leaned in to listen for herself.

But the moment the disc touched his chest, his eyes popped open. "Hey! That's cold," he complained over the chilly affront.

"Hush, let me listen."

"No," Nick's good arm pawed fretfully at hers, "Don't touch me, you don't know where I've been," which left little doubt he was still a bit punchy and earned a few hastily covered smiles and a quickly subdued snortle. Not unexpected under the circumstances.

"But I do, Mr. Burkhardt," she assured her—The Grimm, "for the last twelve hours or so. Do you know where you are?"

"I—" he scanned the room in search of the answer, eyes tracking separate paths which left Val slightly nauseous if it didn't him, so that she focused on the measured beat of his heart and hitching intake of breath relayed through her stethoscope. "Hospital," he decided shortly, "in Oregon."

She shared a smile with Hank, at the trick answer that ingeniously sidestepped his data shortfall. "Could hardly miss on that one, Nick. Can you get a little closer?"

His eyes drifted shut, though clearly he pursued the answer, brows knit in thought. When they softened in relief, he peeked one open, favoring his stitched, swollen and bruised right cheek. "Leb'non?" His response more a question than answer.

"Got it in one, detective. Do you remember–"

"The baby!" Nick's heart monitor jumped the beat and he would have been half out of bed but for Hank's swift yet carefully applied straight arm to his shoulder and softly delivered assurances. "She's okay, Nick. She's okay and back with her mom."

"And your shirt," Monroe added with a puckish grin. "Pick up a few more that size, Nick, and you'll make a cute picture: the Grimm leading his little group of troll-lings. Is that what they call them?"

"I'm not laughing." Nick settled back against his pillows, giving his aching shoulder a peevish rub and glaring at the unimpressed Blutbad.

"Me neither, partner. You did a damn good job. Why don't you try to rest a while and we'll find you something to eat?"

"I smell meatballs," Nick informed him, almost inaudibly, eyes drifting below half mast, his head slumping to the side, "I like 'em—"

"He can have mine," Bud offered from the doorway, "did I miss something?" He asked, pulling from his pocket a paper he waved in a display of success. "I got directions to Margie's and the Lodge," he proclaimed and blushed with pleasure when everyone commended him. "Is he okay?"

"Some short-term memory loss and vertigo but it shouldn't last long," Val answered, turning to draw the off-standing EMT forward from the far corner. "This is the roommate I told you about. My sister, Seraphim, Sera Beck, and we can put you up at our place, so that's one worry you won't have.

"Nice to meet you," Sera offered her hand to each of them while Rosalee presented Pack Grimm. Courtesy Woge and intros out of the way, Sera, still keeping her distance, turned to watch the sleeping Grimm. "He's looking much better than he did this morning. Val—" she turned a wickedly retributive grin on the doctor, "Valkyrie told me about the dose of zombie powder. I have to say, it certainly is an unnerving look. And, not that I'm recommending you try, but have you ever just waited to see if he comes out of it on his own?"

"No," Hank's curt answer brooked no further discussion. "And if we were so inclined, we wouldn't try it when he was already injured."

"I get that," she admitted without rancor, "but you might try it when he's better. Just to establish limits. The more you know—"

"Yeah. Forewarned, forearmed," he smiled. More relaxed for having found some common ground, he filed that away for later consideration as they moved to join the others at the table by the window where Rosalee and Val were dividing up the sandwiches. Might be worth it at that; but could they risk a full reversion? Should they? The notion wanted more study and consideration before they decided. Because he sure as hell wasn't risking his friend, partner and the only Grimm in the region without a lot more than a hope and a prayer. And if it went south, he had no desire to explain his loss to either Lethal Mom, Kelly or the Royal, Captain Sean Renard.

"So," Monroe, ever curious, began conversationally casual, mischief aglint in his eye. Rosalee recognized the signs, now that Nick seemed more stable—relief after the storm. Someone was in for a bit of ribbing and it was no stretch to guess either his target or topic as he sidled near the surgeon. "Interesting names. Is your mother a 'fan for the angels'?"

The fond and sadly reminiscent smile that lit her face spoke volumes about the loss of that bond. "She loved those old stories. Always said she named us after them because she wanted us to look up to the climb rather than down to grovel in the muck and filth."

"She was a wise woman." Rosalee joined them intending to temper Monroe's occasional puckish streak but she needn't have worried.

He slipped a consoling hand along the doctor's shoulder. "She gave you both excellent goals and the wisdom to stay with them. Doesn't always happen to our kind."

"No, it doesn't," she smiled, "and you're right there. She was a special woman."

"Meatballs," Nick monotoned from the bed, "I need meatballs."

"That's supposed to be 'brains', Nick," Hank waved a gesture at Rosalee before he turned, smiling, on his friend and headed towards the bed. "Traitor," he joked, "what about the donuts?"

"Hmmm? Is Juliette here?" Nick asked, voice going even more hoarse in an attempt at stealth.

"Partner, you are so bad. What about the doctor?"

"Where?" Nick turned whirling eyes and an anxious look on the window lit table. "Did she hear me?"

"Sweetie," Rosalee assured as she joined the two with a meatball filled drinking cup, a spoon and ill-disguised smile, "everyone in the room heard you. Here are your meatballs. But take it easy, okay? Your jaw looks pretty tender." She cautioned, handing the cup to Hank for safekeeping so she could spread a towel across Nick's chest. That done, she took it back and offered Nick a spoon-sized bite.

A bit later, Val joined them at the bedside, making notes on the chart as the three watched the apparently sated Nick sleep. "He is single-mindedly indefatigable isn't he?" She asked, returning the chart to its place at the foot of the bed.

"You think he's bad, you should see his Aunt Marie," Rosalee added, a calculated risk, because she meant to be certain of the intentions prompting the sisters' generous offer. Might as well see how they took the whole bitter pill of his heritage. Everyone hereabouts knew of Marie Kessler, many had lost friends or family to her zealous pursuit of the job and, rightfully or not, no few carried a grudge.

Beside her Hank's hand slipped infinitesimally towards his gun as he, too, awaited the surgeon's response.

"Marie Kessler?" She rocked back on her heels while her sister froze where she stood, clearly every bit as stunned by the name.

"The very same," Rosalee's brief smile was mirthless and her attention unwavering so there could be no doubt the Pack was deadly serious.

"That's some pedigree," Val observed after a moment. "Doesn't seem he's followed in her shoes, if you lot are any indication."

"Noooo," Monroe admitted, his face quirking in a smile at the memory of meeting Nick's old-fashioned mother. "His mom had a little trouble swallowing that, too; but she did."

"His mother's—don't tell me, Kelly Burkhardt," she all but choked on the question.

"The one and only," Hank confirmed, alertly observing that the two staggered under the revelation but recovered quickly.

Both steadied themselves and shared a look before Val caught a preparatory breath. "Our father was a vicious fighter and a cruel man who did his best to make us in his image. I—we thank our mother every day for standing between us and making sure he didn't succeed. I'd like to think that you, who work with and alongside him are proof of his method and honor as much as his risking his life to save the Padgett's even when he knew they were Wesen,"

"By their fruits," Hank began, reminded of the guiding rule his own mother had oft quoted to keep him out of trouble.

"I know. I know. You sound just like my mother," she hushed.

"That's where I got it. Must be a _Mothering 101 _thing," he joked, more comfortable with her reasoning, especially when Rosalee smiled and hugged her.

"Thanks for trusting him. You won't regret it."

"I've replaced the IV's and irrigated the wound with fresh solution so you shouldn't need to worry about or replace anything until tomorrow, okay?" Val finished washing up and checked her watch, stalling in the hope Nick would Z-out one last time before she abandoned the trio. She needed a little assurance that, with his pack down to two members, he'd still be okay. Perhaps her gnawing unease was fathered by Hank and Rosalee's palpable distrust which had refused the assigned nurse access to their Grimm despite her 'Woge of good faith'. While the move was sure to sit ill with the administration, she understood and shared their reasoning. She didn't know this woman well enough to risk the vulnerable Grimm's life on her mere avowal of good intentions.

Risk the _'poor little Grimm's'_ life? Val shied as that partisan description of Incarnate Death came to mind. When in the past few hours had she crawled onto the protect-the-Grimm bandwagon? And why?

Those damned _Fruits_ her mother had always pointed out, that's what. And the devoted quartet who'd swooped in protectively the moment they knew where he was. But with the departure of the assigned nurse, they needed a replacement so Sera had convinced Adrienne, long a like minded friend to them both, to come in on her day off. Val had no qualms about recommending her. In fact, Adrienne would be an excellent addition to his care team, quick to notice anything amiss and give them a heads up.

She would, she decided, wait till Adrienne arrived and got settled before heading home. Maybe then—

The alarm hooted, tentative at first, but gaining fervor as Nick's metabolic indicators fell below even the pathetically low number Rosalee and Hank had cited as Post-Z normal. The remaining Pack, stolidly confident, made swift work of rousing their zombified Grimm, Hank jiggling while Rosalee worried the deep pain sensors in his chest. Outside, a token 'code blue' team member stood by in case the outsiders called for help. When the alarm went quiet, he leaned in to be sure team and patient were okay and left trailing a disgruntled mumble when a quick check of the now peaceful monitor showed things were back to normal.

On that encouraging note, Val Holloway took leave of the Grimm and his caretakers, satisfied they were up to the task. It was almost 11 pm when she left to join Sera and the second half of Pack Grimm at home. Better not dawdle, morning would come too soon as it was. Another thing she'd better not do, Val chuckled to herself in the parking lot, recalling the moment when she'd used their charming term, Pack Grimm. Guilty, and appalled that their fond—and private!— term had been brought to light, every last one of them had frozen in place and scrutinized their sleeping friend as though he might arise and smite them. Seemingly endless seconds later, Monroe and Rosalee had struggled to appear casual while practically goose stepping her out the door and down the hallway. Appropriating the consultation room, they had whispered assurances that no one called the Team (they stressed the word several times) a Pack (they'd made even more certain to get that point across) _anywhere_ in Nick's vicinity.

"Why?" she'd asked, quite rationally, she thought. "I'm sure he would be delighted you respected him enough to include him and his partner among your circle."

"Well," they'd explained in something of a tag-team, free-for-all, "we don't want to offend him by, you know, kinda forcing him to adopt, you know, our...uh, rules or terminology."

This was not, she decided, even with the little exposure she'd had of these two, coming from either. More likely it came from the paradoxically differing viewpoints of the remaining members: the one who might not want to admit he needed any help and the other who might not dare the temerity of offering it. While it was not her business, she couldn't help but comment. "I think he would be honored by the inclusion," Val had opined, well aware of discrimination's ,,, effect.

"Why would he want to be part of a group he's supposed to kill?" Monroe asked, applying his own brand of rationality.

"Did he say that? Has he really done that?" Val asked to counter the negative simplification.

"No," Rosalee's calm acknowledgement diffused the level of tension somewhat. "No, he always looks for a better way. We know that," her gesture included Monroe. "I guess we just don't want him to think we would presume on our—"

"Friendship," Val finished for her. "True friendship does not presume, it comforts, enriches and encourages the whole." She gave a moment's thought, a smile lightening her countenance at the revelation and added, "it bears all, believes all, endures all. It—"

"Never ends," Rosalee finished then, with Monroe, joined her in smiling.

That feel good smile stayed with her till the opposition struck its first blow towards eliminating the Marplot Grimm.

**Beannachd Leibh,  
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**elf**


	6. Poison Tin

**A/N sorry it took so long. It was a hard chapter to write. Please allow leeway as to the container type, I liked this for the chapter title. Again, many, and humblest, thanks to LittleBounce for bearing with me despite addressing problems aplenty of her own. To you, the heartiest of handshakes. Oh, and forgive the name change...it was _Adi's_**** idea.**

Chapter 6

"You must be feeling better," Adienne remarked, pulling aside the privacy curtain to reach her patient, the boggart, bogeyman, wesen's nightmare, Deat-on-two-legs, etcetera. She ran through a few more epithets that came to mind as she wrangled the IV line out of his way, flushed the commode and settled the modesty-preserving towel more securely on his shoulder before they began the return to his bed.

That he'd even demanded to go (in a crabbily endearing way reminiscent of her son's formative years) a mere half hour following the fourth 'pink up' she'd attended—and 24 after two car wrecks—was an astounding testimony to his Grimm constitution. It was the only indicator thus far that he was anything more than the police officer his partner and badge proclaimed him. In fact, she'd seen no sign of aggression from him. His behavior had been far better than she often saw in the ER, quick thanks offered for any aid and ready forgiveness for any missteps. Not at all the mad-eyed Destroyer her parents had painted, he was handsome. Boyishly so. His was a face she admired as he leaned into her supportive shoulder and thrust to his feet, his unfettered hand clutching the IV stand for stability while she hitched up his pajama bottoms. She swept the curtain aside and slipped a careful arm around his back to buttress his uncertain balance and smiled at him. "Ready?"

"Yeah." He nodded optimistically then gasped as Adienne tightened her grip to counter his shifting balance. Against all notions she had of a Grimm, he blushed, a hue brilliant enough to be seen from space, then ducked his head, "Sorry. I'm not usually so—"

"Unsteady?" She chuckled, dearly wishing she could snap a selfie of herself and the rosy-faced Grimm (purely for her personal collection, of course). What he needed now was a bit of absolution and a compassionate reality check. "Sweetie, just about 24 hours ago, I was praying we could keep you alive long enough to get you into surgery, so if you're not too steady on the pins today, I'm not complaining. Fear not, I haven't dropped a patient yet. But the quicker we get you back into bed, the better. Okay?"

"—Kay." Nick's breath hitched as every step jarred his heavily-taped ribs and sling-supported arm so that even over that short distance he struggled for enough air to stay on his feet. With hindsight, Adienne realized she should've awaited Hank's return from his coffee run, but Nick had seemed so steady on the way over to the can that the two of them had felt almost superfluous in support. Either Nick had spent himself in that effort or, Rambo-like, he meant to carry on till he dropped. Hopefully—she settled him at last on the bed with a relieved sigh—not on her watch.

She caught up the nebulizing face shield and held it for him, gently rubbing circles on his back with her free hand to encourage relaxation till his breath eased. "That's better," she soothed.

Relieved with Nick's quick recovery, she set the mask aside long enough to remove his slippers, hike his legs into bed and pull the covers back into place because—aside from hunger—his continuing plaint seemed to be the cold. Having settled Nick comfortably against the upraised back rest, she slid the over-the-bed table back into place, careful not to overturn the orange juice it held, then reattached his varied monitor leads. To the audible accompaniment of his sauntering heartbeat, she picked up the records tablet and returned to her seat by the window near the tuckered and dozing Rosalee to update the progress notes.

One thing, she decided watching Nick peel open and inhale the carton of orange juice, would bear watching; he seemed to have a considerable appetite which, excepting Hank's humorously related meatball incident, he'd been unable to indulge. She knew Val and Sera planned to bring an appropriately unchallenging breakfast when they came; but, if her suspicions proved valid, their injured Grimm was practically a starveling and the very thing he needed was more food.

A timid knock at the curtained door was followed shortly by a peek-in from Kelleth, a diminutive dynamo whose housekeeping skills were far outstripped by her ever-sunny Pollyanna outlook. "Is it okay to come in?" she asked.

Her voice was barely above a whisper and uncharacteristically tentative, eyes fearful and focused on the bed's drowsing occupant as if he might, at any moment, explode into lethal action.

"Yeah, Kell, come on in." Adienne encouraged, certain she was but the first of many who'd drop by the 'zoo', as Hank called it, in search of the Grimm. At least _she_ had a legitimate reason to be there.

"Are you okay, Adi?" The housekeeper crept in behind the cart, keeping it strategically positioned between herself and the bed. Her gaze remained glued to the Grimm, her body primed to react to any move he might make.

"I can hear you," Nick's singsong voice echoed from behind the mask, his manner almost playful. "Come here, little chicken," he coaxed in a reverberating chant, "I don't want to hurt you. I just want to eat you."

Kell would have bolted at that had Adienne not leapt to stop her. Maushertz in tow, she turned on the offending patient, confident that he meant nothing by it after hours of being regaled with seemingly unprovoked oddments of movie quotes and snippets of old commercials that took his fancy, but the timid housekeeper didn't know that. "Thank you, Nick! That'll be enough of that, mind you."

She ushered the housekeeper further into the room, providing moral support to the tiny woman and proof in her continued existence that he didn't bite. Though she'd tried to be quiet, Adienne turned to see Rosalee had been roused, yet again, by his voice piping up from the bed as it had been sporadically through the night.

Rosalee tried to chivvy her amused smile at Nick's bad Gene Wilder impression into a no nonsense glower before closing the distance to check on him. "Who is this, Nick, and why are you harassing her?" she demanded, then turned to Adienne. "And what happened to Hank?"

"Bathroom and coffee," Adienne replied, towing Kelleth behind to join Rosalee at the bed, "I'm not sure in what order. Must've been coffee first because he left this orange juice and took off."

"He didn't!"

Both women spun to face the housekeeper at her adamant denial. "What do you mean he didn't? _Didn't_ _what?_ leave _the juice?_"

"Uh, I was cleaning—in the hall—so I saw him leave," the woman stuttered, quailing into a Woge under their focused concern. "And I haven't seen him come back yet."

Somehow...maybe her natural cynicism was calling the shots...the answer seemed carefully incomplete to Adienne and that set off alarms in her instinctually protective nature. However now was not the time, and force not the means, to get the answers she needed. "Since you're here," she began, willing to approach that poser from a different angle, "you can meet Rosalee...and Hank if he ever gets back. In the meantime, this—" Adienne flourished a wave in his direction, "is Nick Burkhardt. The Grimm."

"Hiya," Nick flapped an amiable greeting in her direction, "welcome to my parlor,"

He was in the midst of throwing himself wholeheartedly into a display of malefic mirth worthy of the sinister Snidely Whiplash himself when Rosalee lowered a tempering hand over his mouth. "You are feeling your oats this morning, aren't you, Nick? But let's tone it down a little, okay?"

"Okay," he nodded agreeably, "Speaking of oats, I'm starving!"

And, likely—Adienne made a quick note on her scratchpad to discuss the matter with Val as soon as she arrived— he was. Just now, though, they might have other problems. Not to borrow any trouble, but she had a bad feeling and she fully intended to be ready if it turned out to be valid. A quick check showed both visual tip-offs a bit iffy; but they would be thanks to the concussion, which was likely responsible for the ads and movie replays with which he'd regaled them all night.

As there was nothing more she could do at this time, Adienne turned to the belated introduction of their visitor. "Rosalee, this is Kelleth Martz. We call her Kell. Kell, this is Rosalee...Calvert? She's part of Nick's team."

"An' I'm Nick," he interjected good-naturedly.

"Is he usually this...weird?" Adienne laughed as Nick's chatty commentary on the petite stature of the newly arrived 'mouse maid' devolved into a crowing monologue of one-upmanship on size.

"No, he isn't." Rosalee assured, brazenly tipping his head back to check his eyes where Adienne had cautiously opted for subtlety. If ever there was any doubt as to his mild approach to dealing with Wesen, Rosalee's boldly unconcerned and familiar manhandling of the Grimm seemed to empower Kell. And, truth be told, Adienne felt a little more sanguine herself that Rosalee approached him with no hint of trepidation or deference.

Adienne breathed a bit easier for knowing she had not been alone in her vigilance. Might as well ask the obvious question. "Where is Hank? He said he was going for coffee. But how long does that take?" His absence amped up her dread suspicion that something bad was about to happen and they would need all hands on deck to meet the challenge

"He's probably changing and cleaning up a bit," Rosalee theorized, digging into her own neatly packed over-nighter. Kelleth, seeing his interaction with the two undaunted women who cared for him, decided the risk of staying in the room was acceptable so long as she stayed close to a "buddy". He did sound more like a slightly loopy cartoon villain than a hard core, two-fisted Wesen killer.

Nick—Mr. Burkhardt (no need to forget self-preservation altogether) was pretty hard to take seriously when he sounded more like Gru of Despicable Me than, say, Voldemort of Harry Potter fame. So she went about her cleaning duties, proud she could hereafter say she'd met The Grimm and lived. He was a little odd, but seemed pretty much like anyone else otherwise. Maybe she wouldn't tell anyone that, though. After all, what they didn't need to know...

"Morning, ladies. And who might this be?" Hank's easy courtesy greeted them as his entry parted the curtains. Toiletry kit under one arm, freshly shaved and shirted, he toted a 4-carry carton full of steaming ambrosia whose aromatics blended enticingly with his aftershave and overlaid the hospital's sterile ambiance with tantalizing "eau de coffee house". He set the carton on the table near the window and turned an approving look on Adienne. "I see you got him back okay. He give you any trouble?"

"Thanks," she returned his ready smile. "And no. It was a little bumpy and he seemed pretty spent by the time we got back from the washroom, but we made it."

"He always hates to admit he can't go—help—what not."

"Well he's done now. And sleeping, so let me introduce you to Kelleth—"

"The _mouse maid_," Kelleth interrupted Adienne's introduction to provide Nick's newly minted and oddly personal appellation, offering her hand in greeting.

"He called you that? Then I'll have to apologize for my partner. He can't have been seeing clearly or he'd have been delighted to meet you and elated to find someone shorter than him." Hank's familiar wink earned him a charmed smile from the lady and a half-hearted raspberry of disdain from Nick, who was clearly conscious enough to respond to that provocation.

It was a rational enough reaction, given the long running joke he shared with the three men on his team of which he, being the shortest (albeit of normal height), was arguably the most dangerous. Weapons aside, the kid had an encyclopedic knowledge of old commercials and TV offerings as good as Monroe's of timepieces ranging from sundial to solar powered. Impressive, sure, but after six plus hours of recitation, about as exciting as watching paint dry.

Welcoming the respite, Hank put aside Nick's pumpkin spice cappuccino for later, figuring since he hadn't pugnaciously insisted on having it, he needed sleep more than he did coffee. So he made himself comfortable by the window table to enjoy his latte, check his email and let his partner sleep at last since the night had been anything but restful...for any of them

OOO

Nick was purring.

Not so immersed in her journal update to miss it, Rosalee noticed the soft, almost-inaudible thrum that accompanied each breath. How sweet! She smiled, flipping to another page and making note of that gentle sough of air. It was good he was settling. After the uneven night, he needed the rest to recover and they'd all be glad of a respite. Funny she'd never noticed that rag-worthy habit before; but now that she had, she most definitely intended to make note of it—a reminder to take ruthless advantage once he was back on his feet. If less amusing, this development was at least an improvement over the varied villainous impressions he'd offered through the night (interspersed with his advert impressions).

It was simply too good not to share, especially as she knew the partners shared a fondness for trickery and jokes. Rosalee nudged Hank's chair to divert his attention from his phone, tapped her ear and, with a waggle of eyebrows, nodded in Nick's direction.

At first Hank just stared at her, apparently missing the humor as the originally soft purr grew into a snore. His reaction was anything but what she expected. Hank thrust to his feet. "Nick doesn't snore! Talks in his sleep, as we all noticed last night, but he does not snore. He and I have been on a lot of stake outs and what not, slept under some pretty awkward conditions, and I have _never_ heard him snore."

With but a brief pause for his disclaimer to register, the three bolted for the bed, each in his own way seeking a cause to this new development.

"Nick's not sleeping," Hank more cursed than observed after seeing his partner close up, "I've seen enough from my time in Narcotics to know. He's been drugged!"

"Heart rate is dropping." Rosalee pointed to the monitor reading as 26 dropped to 25 which, at his already dangerously low level, was not only significant it was drifting towards critical.

"Pupils are pin point and sluggish." Adienne straightened from checking and felt the icy rush of fear fed adrenaline surge through her gut. This time they might need the code blue team; but could they trust them? Especially in light of present events? But did they have a choice? "Damn it! It had to be that orange juice."

While the three at the bed tried to get organized, Kelleth breathed a sigh for calm and boldly stepped into her own personal heroic daydream. Calm, unruffled, she discarded the gloves she wore and donned a new pair, her expression grave and hands shaking just a bit as she snapped open a new trash bag, collected the discarded juice container, careful to preserve any possible fingerprints, and deposited it within. Taking a pen out of her pocket, she added date, time, and her initials to the bag then sealed it with a single piece of hair taped across the closure. She felt a bit foolish adding those but it was SOP in such cases for the collecting officer to initial samples.

Should she have said something about what she really saw? Maybe, but she knew the unwritten rules around here and when asked about the juice, she did not know the Grimm or his coterie of friends. How did she know what was right and who could she trust but herself? Too late now to speak, that much was certain. But she could do her level best to help the—Nick—now.

"We need to empty his stomach. Get him to throw up," Adienne was saying.

Basin! Kelleth double bagged the small trash container from her cart, added a third, just for good measure, and joined the trio at the bed as Adienne turned to Rosalee.

"Can you do that while I go for Dr. Simms? He's Kehrseite so he won't be involved in this. And I know we can trust him." At Rosalee's grim nod Adienne added, "and be careful of his airway, don't want him to aspirate."

Before Adienne was out the door, Hank was letting down the rails and had bent to turn Nick onto his good side when Kell offered him a pair of gloves. _Damn, she was good in a crunch! _ As they dropped the head of the bed and wrestled Nick onto his good side, Kell returned with a small trash container, double-bagged, and held it at the ready.

She held it out, deferential and quaking but standing her ground. "If...if you want. Or...in case you need it...for evidence."

**Thanks to all who have ventured by, read and, especially, taken the time to review. As is truly said of chocolate, "it helps. It really helps". (Remus Lupin)**

**Elf**


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